“Sustained. I’ve given you a little latitude, Mr. Swyteck, but please don’t take advantage.”
“Yes, Judge. Let me put this in more concrete terms. Mr. Rudsky, no one was ever convicted for the murder of Sally Fenning’s daughter, correct?”
“That’s correct.”
“No one was even indicted.”
“True.”
“You never even asked a grand jury to return an indictment.”
“I never did, no.”
“You never even empaneled a grand jury, did you?”
He shifted in his seat. “You’re really getting into the matter of grand jury secrecy.”
“Answer the question,” said the judge.
“Can I have the question again, please?”
“Sure,” said Jack. “You never empaneled a grand jury, did you?”
“You mean in the Katherine Fenning murder?”
“No, I was actually talking about the Lincoln assassination.”
“Objection.”
The judge cracked a faint smile. “Sustained, but Mr. Swyteck does have a point. Please answer the question.”
“No. We did not empanel a grand jury.”
“Why not?”
Compton popped to her feet, grumbling. “Judge, this line of questioning does not go to the sole relevant issue at this hearing, which is quite simply whether or not the investigation into the murder of Katherine Fenning is active. This is a blatant attempt to invade the secrecy and sanctity of the grand jury process.”
The judge looked at Jack and said, “Can you narrow your question, Mr. Swyteck?”
Jack stepped closer to the witness and asked, “Is it fair to say that you didn’t empanel a grand jury because you didn’t have sufficient evidence to do so?”
“I suppose that’s one reason.”
“Let’s talk about your evidence-gathering efforts, shall we? How many subpoenas have been issued in the last three years?”
“None.”
“How many depositions taken in the last three years?”
“None.”
“How many witnesses have been interviewed in the last three years?”
“None.”
“Are there any suspects whom you are currently pursuing?”
“Not at this time.”
“Not in the last three years, isn’t that right, sir?”
“That’s correct.”
“When will a grand jury be convened?”
“I don’t know.”
“And yet, you maintain that this is an active file, and that I have no right to see it.”
“The case is still open.”
“As open as it ever was?”
“Yes. As open as it ever was.”
“No wonder you never caught the killer.”
“Objection.”
“Withdrawn. Mr. Rudsky, do you know a woman named Deirdre Meadows?”
He hesitated, as if the name alone made him nervous. “Yes. She’s a reporter for the Miami Tribune.”
“Did you ever have any discussions with Deirdre Meadows about the murder of Sally Fenning’s daughter?”
“Yes. I’ve had general discussions with a number of reporters about the case.”
“To your knowledge, how many of those reporters have written a book about the murder of Sally Fenning’s daughter?”
He squirmed nervously. “Just one.”
“That would be Ms. Meadows, correct?”
“Correct.”
“Did you provide any assistance to her in the writing of her book?”
“That depends on what you mean by assistance.”
“Ms. Meadows claims that she had your full cooperation. Would you call that assistance?”
“Objection.”
“On what grounds?” asked the judge.
Compton was silent, stalling, as if the testimony of her own client was news to her. “Relevance,” she stammered.
“Overruled.”
Jack said, “Did Ms. Meadows have your full cooperation, Mr. Rudsky?”
“That depends on what you mean by full cooperation.”
“Did she interview you?”
“Yes.”
“Did she let you read her manuscript?”
“Yes.”
“Did you share any investigative materials with her?”
He paused. Jack waited. The government’s lawyer waited. Finally, Rudsky answered, “I might have.”
Compton went white. She sprang to her feet and asked, “Could we have a short recess, Your Honor?”
“Not now,” said the judge. “This is just getting interesting. Mr. Swyteck, continue.”
Jack walked to the lectern and checked his notes, not because he had to, but only to make the witness stew in the uncomfortable silence. “Sir, are you aware that Sally Fenning threatened to bring a libel suit against Deirdre Meadows if her book were ever published?”
“I’d heard that, yes.”
“Are you also aware that a libel suit cannot be maintained on behalf of a dead person?”
“I don’t understand what you’re asking.”
“It’s a straightforward question. Are you aware that once a person is dead, you can say whatever you want about them? There is no liability for libel.”
“Yes. I learned that in law school.”
“So the death of Sally Fenning leaves Deirdre Meadows free to publish her book without any fear of a libel suit. Agreed?”
“I suppose that’s correct.”
“And anyone who gave Ms. Meadows his full cooperation in the writing of that book would have the same protection, would he not?”
Rudsky narrowed his eyes. “What are you implying?”
Jack took a half step closer, tightening his figurative grasp. “Sir, do you have a financial interest of any kind in Ms. Meadows’s book?”
Compton shot from her seat. “Judge, please.”
“You’d better not be asking again for a recess.”
“No,” she said. “But I do have a proposal.”
“There’s a question pending,” said Jack.
“Then I object,” said Compton. “There’s no foundation for any of these questions, and the inquiry is totally irrelevant. Before we waste an entire day on this fishing expedition, I would at least ask the court to entertain my suggestion.”
“What is it?” asked the judge.
“In a good faith effort to streamline this process, the government agrees to provide to Mr. Swyteck all of the materials and information that Mr. Rudsky shared with this reporter, Deirdre Meadows. Perhaps that will satisfy Mr. Swyteck’s needs.”
“Perhaps it won’t,” said Jack.
Compton continued, “If it doesn’t, then Mr. Swyteck is free to renew his claim under the Sunshine Act for the production of the entire investigative file.”
“Why not let Mr. Swyteck finish with this witness and see if we can’t resolve the entire matter here and now?” asked the judge.
“Because there is some overlap between the murder of Sally Fenning, which I’m handling, and the murder of her daughter, which Mr. Rudsky handled. I’ll concede that Mr. Swyteck has the right to see anything that Mr. Rudsky shared with a reporter. But ordering us to produce the entire file would not strike the proper balance between the public’s right to know and the need to preserve the integrity of criminal investigations.”
The judge looked at Jack and asked, “Is that acceptable to you?”
“I’d really like Mr. Rudsky to answer my question.”
“Mr. Swyteck,” the judge said, “I asked if that was acceptable to you.”
Jack wanted to push, but the judge seemed to be leaning in his favor, and he didn’t want to lose that advantage by overreaching. “For now,” said Jack. “But if I don’t get everything I need, I will be back.”
“Very well,” said the judge. “The government has two days to produce the investigative materials to Mr. Swyteck. And I’m warning you: no game playing. I’m not going to be happy if this matte
r comes back to me.”
With the crack of the gavel, the hearing was over. Rudsky stepped down from the witness stand, not so much as looking at Jack. As Jack packed his briefcase, Patricia Compton walked over to his table and said, “Congratulations.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s a sad thing that no one was ever indicted for the murder of Sally’s daughter.”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
“I don’t intend to have the same problem for the murder of Sally Fenning. I thought you might want to pass that along to your client.”
Jack didn’t blink. “Sure thing. Just as soon as I see your file. Call me when it’s ready,” he said, then turned and headed for the exit.
Twenty-four
It was 2 A.M., and Deirdre Meadows was at the scene of a crime. A white van had been parked outside the grocery store for almost a week. The doors were locked, but a security guard detected the putrid odor of something like spoiled meat and rotten eggs. Deirdre heard the call on the police radio-she always kept it playing in her car, just in case something broke-and she arrived just minutes after the police had cordoned off the area. One of the officers on the scene confirmed off the record that a body was inside, which got Deirdre’s heart pumping. Foul play was the rhythm that Miami crime reporters danced to, and homicide was enough to make Deirdre bailar la bamba.
“Man or a woman?” asked Deirdre. She was standing just on the other side of the yellow police tape, talking to a uniformed officer.
“Don’t know yet,” he said.
She rattled off a string of questions, gathering facts, writing the story in her head as she assimilated information. This was what she did day after day, night after night, for surprisingly little pay and even less recognition. She hoped that would change soon, with a little luck from Sally Fenning.
Her cell phone rang. She tucked her notepad into her purse and took the call.
“Hello, Deirdre,” said the man on the line.
It seemed like a contradiction, but she recognized the disguised voice immediately. It was that same distorted, mechanical sound as the last call. “What are you doing awake at this hour?” she asked.
“None of your business.”
She reached into her purse, pulled out her Dictaphone, and held it up to the phone.
“Put the recorder away,” he said a moment before she clicked the Record button.
She froze, not sure how he knew.
“I can see you,” he said.
She looked around. Two media vans had pulled into the lot and were setting up for videotaping. Three police cars and the medical examiner’s van were parked on the other side of the crime scene. The large parking lot was otherwise empty, a flat acre of asphalt bathed in the yellowish cast of security lights.
“Where are you?” she asked.
He laughed, which sounded like static through the voice-altering device. “I’m everywhere you go.”
She swallowed hard, trying to stay firm. “What do you want?”
“First, I want to congratulate you.”
“On what?”
“For staying silent at the court hearing. You didn’t mention a thing about the dog attack outside the warehouse. You showed very good judgment. The same good judgment you showed by not contacting the police.”
“How do you know I haven’t contacted the police?”
“Because you’re an ambitious bitch.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“I know you wouldn’t just go to the police and tell them what you know. You’re the kind of person who would expect something in return from them, some juicy tidbit that would have appeared in the newspaper. But I haven’t seen anything of interest under any of your by-lines lately. So I can only assume you didn’t go to the police.”
Deirdre was silent, a little unnerved by how well he seemed to know her. “What do you want now?”
“Why do you assume I want something? I’m a very giving person, Deirdre.”
“What are you offering?”
“A news flash. The first of Sally Fenning’s six beneficiaries is going to die.”
She felt chills, but she tried to stay with him. “When?”
“Two weeks from today.”
“Which one?”
“That’s sort of up to you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Here’s the deal: It can be you, or it can be someone else. If it’s you, it won’t be quick and painless. You gotta decide. Do you want to live and share the forty-six million dollars with me, your partner? Or do you want to die?”
“Is this the choice you mentioned last time?”
“Exactly. You can choose to keep your mouth shut and make us both rich. Or you can choose to warn the others, make me mad, and make yourself dead.”
“How do you expect me to make a choice like that?”
“Easy. Here’s how it works. You keep quiet for a couple more weeks, and I’ll take that as your acceptance. I’ll assume we got a deal.”
Her hand was shaking as she spoke into the phone. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“Because I know that you will make the right decision.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
“Don’t be a fool, girl. Your half of forty-six million dollars can buy a lot of grief counseling. So remember, two weeks from today, the first victim falls. If you’re smart, it won’t be you.”
“You’re sick.”
“You’re right. But I’m also right about one thing. If you’re at all thinking that you should do something to save the others, trust me: They aren’t worth saving.”
She thought for a moment, wondering what he’d meant by that, but a moment was too long. There was silence on the line. The call was over. Deirdre put the phone in her purse and walked away from the crime scene, no longer interested in some story about just another body in the back of a van.
Twenty-five
Jack was eager to see what part of the five-year-old investigative file the state attorney was ready to disclose. The judge had given Mason Rudsky two days to turn over anything he’d shared with Deirdre Meadows about the murder of Sally’s daughter, and the government waited until the fifty-ninth minute of the forty-seventh hour to notify Jack that the materials were ready for his inspection. Jack might have busted their chops about stringing things out, except that he’d been busy for two days trying to convince a jury in another case that it really wasn’t robbery if his client took forty bucks and change from the cash register but dropped his wallet on the way out with fifty-eight dollars inside. It was sort of the criminal defense version of net-net economic theory. Didn’t work, at least not where the defendant had left his photo ID and Social Security number at the scene of the crime.
The government’s entire production on the Katherine Fenning murder investigation consisted of one videotape. It was in a sealed envelope with an affidavit from Mason Rudsky in which the prosecutor swore that he’d shared nothing else with Deirdre Meadows. Jack brought Kelsey with him. It was nice to have another point of view.
“What is this?” asked Jack.
A police officer was seated in a folding chair near the door to the conference room. He didn’t answer.
“Excuse me, Officer. I asked what’s on the tape.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m under strict orders from Mr. Rudsky not to answer any of your questions.”
“Then why are you here?”
“To make sure the tape does not leave this room.”
“Seeing how this room has no windows, maybe that’s a job you could do from the other side of the door. My colleague and I would like to be able to talk freely while viewing the tape.”
The cop considered it. “I suppose that’d be okay.”
Jack thanked him and closed the door. Kelsey was examining the videocassette. “Interview of S. Fenning,” she read from the label. “It’s almost five years old.”
Jack said, “Sally’s ex-husband told me they were
both interviewed. They must have videotaped Sally’s.”
“Why?”
“It’s a smart thing for law enforcement to do if there’s a chance of getting a nice voluntary confession that will play well to a jury.”
“What would Sally have to confess?”
“Let’s play the tape and find out.” Jack shoved the cassette into the VCR and switched on the television. A horizontal bar blipped across the bright blue screen, followed by snow and static. When it cleared, Sally Fenning was staring straight at them.
The image was the most unflattering Jack had ever seen of Sally. Her eyelids looked heavy, and her skin was pale. A punishing light shining in her face didn’t help. Sally wasn’t the kind of woman who needed makeup to be beautiful, but even a natural beauty had her limits, especially in a head-and-shoulders closeup like this.
“She looks so tired,” said Kelsey.
“Something tells me they didn’t start taping at the beginning of the interview. Looks like we’re several hours into the interrogation.”
“How soon was this after the murder of her daughter?”
Jack checked the date on the videocassette sleeve. “Couple of months, I think.”
On screen, Sally continued to stare into the camera, waiting. Finally, the voice emerged. “Are you ready to continue, Ms. Fenning?”
The focus remained on Sally’s face, and the man’s voice had come from somewhere off-screen. “That’s Rudsky,” said Jack.
“Ready,” said Sally.
“I want to ask a few more questions about this stalker you said was pursuing you. First, can you tell me what he looks like?”
“Not really. I only saw him once, from behind. One night I looked out the window and saw someone running away. I’m afraid I didn’t get a very good look at him.”
“What does he sound like?”
“I’m not sure. Whenever he called, his voice was distorted by some kind of mechanical contraption.”
“Is there anyone you suspect? Any customers at the bar who’ve been bothering you, hitting on you?”
“A bar waitress gets hit on by creeps all the time. Kind of an occupational hazard. Could be anyone, really.”
The camera kept rolling, but there was silence. Sally took a sip of water.
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